The pain is a razorblade skating down your throat.
You were always the specimen flattened between
a cover glass and microscope slide
(secured, magnified, viewed).
The spotlight amplified your voice,
but no amount of stage lamps could rip the pain
from your life.
You splayed yourself open for dissection,
gave the world the opportunity to see you bare.
You screamed through your pain, clawing out
of the depths of your sorrow, but each time,
more dirt piled on you,
muffling your screams (damaging your vocal cords) and severing your spirit.
When I wanted to scorch off my thumbprints and abandon my name, your lullabies cradled me with their familiar shrieks. You were buried with ligature markings – not just the noose you tied but the connection of paradoxical pitches in the songs you sang.
(The songs that lacerated through my loneliness – the ones that pierced through my pain.)
I shouted at the moon, but no one heard the shout when it escaped as a whisper. Not a word shredded my lungs, but your melody serrated my heart.
I want to tell you I’m sorry, but apologies are like bouquets of dried flowers at a funeral. Too little, too late.
You taught me that poetry and song aren’t all that different. You taught me never to sacrifice or surrender but to fight with my last dying breath.
So, here I am, gasping for oxygen, begging to hear your voice